Shades of Gray
by Lawson227
Summary: A story that arose out of a conversation between Lizicia & myself with respect to her extremely fine We Didn't Start the Fire. Basically she challenged/requested/dared (take your pick) me to write my version of the same sort of situation she portrayed in Fire. So here we are. My version.
1. Shades of Gray

_**Shades of Gray**_

**AN:** I know it's been forever since I updated _Once Seen_—promise I haven't abandoned it, it's merely been percolating. In the meantime there's this, which arose out of a conversation between Lizicia & myself with respect to her extremely fine _We Didn't Start the Fire_. (If you haven't read it, why not? Leave this page immediately and go read—verily and stuff.)

Anyhow, basically she challenged/requested/dared (take your pick) me to write my version of the same sort of situation she portrayed in _Fire_. I was at a loss until a first line popped into my head and I decided to just freewrite and see where it took me. So… here we are. My take.

**AN2: **Normally, I wouldn't post an author's note of this nature, but because of a recent event, I feel as if I have to—there is a nasty little troll who's been harassing me on the site since October. One of her favorite tricks other than the nastygram reviews is to write insulting Guest reviews on other people's fics using my handle or some variation on it. Since she now appears to have followed me over to the _Blacklist_ fandom, I feel as if I should say if any of you see an unlogged-in review using my name, rest assured, it is **NOT ME_._** I've stated it on my profile that I never, ever leave unlogged-in reviews unless the author knows me very well and I certainly never leave mean reviews.

Okay, that's done. Story ahead.

* * *

In his especially dour and cynical moments—which, face it, was his usual modus operandi, elevated to a goddamned art form lately—Don would tell himself what happened between him and Elizabeth Keen was nothing more than a moment of weakness.

At his darkest, he imagined it nothing more than a lapse in judgment brought on by a wave of pity. Disguised behind gratitude.

Problem was, he didn't believe it. Not for a minute.

Because if there was any one trait that superseded his natural cynicism, it was honesty. And as hard as he was on the people around him, he was doubly so with himself.

Truth: Liz Keen didn't _do_ pity.

Not for herself and not for the people around her and after what they'd been through, she sure as hell didn't do pity for him.

Now, of course, she was empathetic. God knows, she was way more of a bleeding heart than he felt wise for the job, and he'd seen firsthand how intensely she felt emotion. But even he knew there was a distinct difference between pity and empathy and honest, heartfelt emotion.

Bet she would be surprised to learn that.

Or not.

See: _empathy_.

Because maybe it was the thing he was most reluctant—most…_afraid_—to admit to himself.

That she knew him.

The way he knew her.

And what made that first unexpected time so completely inevitable and unsurprising.

So… expected.

Really, the only surprise had been _when_.

That it had happened in the wake of a traumatic event wasn't surprising. Hell, these days, their entire lives were little more than a continuous series of traumatic events. It was, in fact, in the wake of one of those traumatic events that he'd felt the first stirrings of what might be. Not physical—not really—not beyond his intense relief that she was safe and whole and unharmed, at least physically. However, buried deep within the waves of intense relief were the first glimmers of emotional attachment.

Hers, as she clung to him without reservation.

His, as he held her close with considerable reservations because he felt it.

He felt… something.

He, who'd spent so much time and effort training himself to be cold and dispassionate in the field. To hold himself at a remove. And that in the wake of Audrey, had turned those considerable skills toward achieving the same in his personal life.

So to feel something now? And for _her_?

Hell yeah, he had reservations.

Reservations that after a time, turned to a sort of weary resignation. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried, she wormed her way under his skin. And it's not like he could even fully pin the blame on her because he knew it wasn't anything she was doing deliberately.

For God's sake, he knew damned well given the rest of her life, the last thing Liz needed or wanted was further complications.

And this—_them_—was a complication.

One they couldn't seem to avoid.

He could, however, have delayed the inevitable. At least a while longer. At least, that's what he told himself.

But who knew? Maybe subconsciously he'd been trying to provoke some sort of reaction.

There'd been so little from her since that day in the box. At least, nothing he could clearly recall.

There _had_ been a note—unsigned and as enigmatic as its author—wishing him a speedy recovery. The note had been waiting for him at his apartment, accompanied by a photograph of him, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with a familiar dark head lowered to his mattress, a pale hand resting on his forearm.

No memory of that incident whatsoever. And yet he could clearly recall waking to a faint whiff of a scent he wasn't all that shocked to recognize as familiar—jasmine and vanilla with a subtle hint of citrus—that had cut through the sharp antiseptic smells of the hospital and had left him feeling oddly unsettled when it was Audrey who ultimately walked through the door of his room.

He told himself it was nice to see her. Vestiges of a former life. But her presence remained jarring because she didn't fit the scent. Or his current life. Or the image that lived in his mind and to which he'd held onto throughout the endless, bleak hours in the box. While Red had a surprising litany of desires to live for, Don had but a single image. That image had shimmered, wispy and insubstantial and maddeningly out of reach as Red's quiet voice had resonated within the box's confines, leaving him feeling helpless and yeah, he could admit it now—hopeless. When the image had finally taken on form and substance, so close, yet so unlike what he'd ever imagined, the last of his considerable emotional armor had shattered.

No surprise then, that sense of restlessness hadn't fully dissipated until the moment he crossed the threshold into their new black site and he'd seen her, smiling faintly as the team, smaller, battle-tested, and closer after the harrowing experience of Anslo Garrick, welcomed him back.

Even then, nothing really changed. It _couldn't_.

Then came the day—That Stupid What the Hell Was He Thinking Day as he later thought of it. The day that found them chasing down a lead—literally—less than forty-eight hours after he'd been freed from the hated cane and granted a return to field duty. In a fiery haze of adrenaline and a barely acknowledged desire to prove himself, he'd pushed himself to race past her, bracing his body as he skidded along a patch of ice hidden by the cold shadows of the alley. He barely had time to congratulate himself on not ending up ass over teakettle before he hit the asphalt running with hardly a break in his rhythm despite the increasingly hot shards of pain shooting deep within his newly repaired leg. Still, though, he'd pressed on, gaining ground on their perp with each step that finally culminated in a body-slamming tackle as satisfying as it was painful.

That Liz had been fewer than a half-dozen steps behind him hadn't mattered.

That she'd hit him with a reproachful glare as she shoved him aside to slap the cuffs on their subdued scumbag had barely registered.

It wasn't until much later, in the quiet shadows of his office that everything finally came to a head.

Post Office 2.0 had settled into the quiet hum of late night, only necessary personnel and those with no lives—_ahem_—in residence. This new version of his office, though smaller than his previous iteration, had the added benefit of a couch in addition to the standard issue desk and ergonomic work chair. Why that was, he hadn't been too inclined to question, that is, not until he'd noticed neither Keen's nor Malik's offices had extra furniture beyond what was strictly necessary. That in fact, only Cooper had been afforded such a luxury in their new digs.

In his mind, he _could_ put it down to his position as the most senior field agent.

Never mind that Malik had twice as many years' experience. She was CIA, not FBI.

Never mind that Aram also outranked him in terms of years of service. He'd originated out of NSA, not to mention, his domain was in the bullpen and dominated by necessary computer equipment. No room for a couch.

But all it took was one veiled glance from Liz for that unflinching honesty to rear its ugly head again and prod him to acknowledge he was already damn well aware of the couch's provenance. How she'd managed it, he had no idea. Why she'd bothered, he could _try_ to say he had no idea; he _could_ try to lie to himself and say it was solely out of some misguided sense of concern and maybe because as his partner she felt some measure of responsibility for him, but… yeah. No. He couldn't do that. To either of them.

He never said anything and of course, neither did she. He did find it handy for perusing files. Made it easier to exchange them with her as they shared information and theories. Shared the coffee she made a point of bringing him each morning as they convened prior to the official start of their work day.

During the increasingly frequent late nights he spent, he found it especially useful for stretching out, giving him room to prop up the leg that had a nasty tendency to ache whenever he'd overexerted himself during PT—or when it was getting ready to rain.

That night, with so few personnel around, he'd allowed himself the luxury of changing into sweats and a t-shirt before lying back on the couch, eyes closed as he idly rubbed his aching thigh. He must have dozed because he never heard the quiet click of the door opening or closing, nor did he feel the depression of the couch as it accepted her weight.

What he _did_ feel was the touch of her hand, not hesitant, as he might have expected, but firm and sure—not too light, yet not so much pressure as to cause him greater pain. It was as if she'd done this a thousand times before, gently massaging his tired muscles at the end of a long day to relieve the aches and pains of an injury that would live with him for the rest of his life. While he, in turn, would rub her back and shoulders, working out the knots and easing the tension caused by their high-stress jobs. Could savor her grateful sighs as the day's worries ebbed away, leaving her fluid and boneless and warm beneath his hands.

Hey, a guy could dream. Especially late at night after a few bourbons too many.

"Why do you _do_ these things?"

Her voice was wry, tinged with concern and perhaps the slightest bit of anger. And while the question seemed direct, he sensed multiple layers hidden within her deceptively mild tone.

He knew that tone—knew to be wary of it. But this was a dream, so he felt safe in answering honestly.

"Because I have to."

"Idiot."

And because he could sense her smiling and because it was a dream, he allowed himself to smile in return, knowing this to be a conversation they would have many, many times in the future. You know, in his dreams.

It wasn't until the pressure of her hand on his thigh turned painful that he realized it wasn't a dream and by then, it was too damned late.

He opened his eyes in time to see her leaning down, in time to cup her face in his palm, and in time to meet her gaze and know exactly what was about to happen.

Later, holding her against him as she dozed, he wasn't sure whether or not to be grateful that his new office lacked the windows that in his previous office would have kept this from happening.

Except _hell_—that, too, was a lie.

He was damned grateful for the lack of windows that had allowed what had happened to happen. Because that night he was convinced it was a one and done. An anomaly, never to be repeated. With good reason.

Whatever he personally thought of Tom Keen, Liz was married to the man. Don wasn't one to go breaking vows, whether his own or anyone else's. And Liz—it simply wasn't in her to do this long term. Or short term. Or at all.

So he resigned himself once again, determined that their one night would have to remain just that unless, of course, circumstances changed. Not that there was any guarantee circumstances would change in his favor. That would require a level of optimism that simply wasn't in his nature. Then, he received the note.

_I honestly would have hoped that by now you would have learned that the world exists beyond black and white, Donald. There are so very many layers. Bad is not always as it appears and good is not always required to be so straightforward._

_As far as moral and just—well… let's not go there just yet, hm?_

_Point is, it is possible to exist—to thrive, even—within the myriad shades of gray of which the greater world is comprised. It's really not so dull as one might imagine. Allows the rare flash of color to shine ever more brilliantly. A thing to be cherished._

Unsigned. Enigmatic. Except, after his experience in the box, not quite so much as it once might have been.

As before, it had been waiting for him at his apartment accompanied by a photograph. He and Liz, leaning against the tailgate of their Bureau SUV, clearly arguing. As usual. Awareness prickled along his neck as he noted the way they leaned in toward each other, his arm propped above her head on the rear windshield and while she had her arms crossed defensively, she nevertheless stood close enough one shoe edged between the polished toes of his wingtips.

There wasn't enough in the picture to allow him to judge when, exactly, it had been taken. In the end, did it matter?

He decided, as he slipped the note into the drawer of his gun safe alongside his spare magazines and the first note and photograph, that no, it really didn't.

What was the point?

It was there. It had happened. And so what if it was mocking him with an annoying, well-modulated, _Well, what are you going to do about it?_

He _could_ retreat back to his sharply defined world of black and white. That was the easy choice. Or he could accept the shades of gray with their many complications and the occasional brilliant flash of color.

He let her know of his choice on a day that was remarkable solely for how unremarkable it was. At a stop light on the way back to the office, while arguing, as usual, he leaned across the console and kissed her. Brief, hard, and with no question as to what he wanted.

Whatever came next would have to be of her own volition.

* * *

**AN3: **Well then—not at all how I expected this to go, especially Red's (non) appearance, but then, I guess that's the point of free writing. Just allow the subconscious free rein.


	2. Time

**Time**

* * *

The man's skin was like a Jackson Pollock painting—a pale canvas with an abundance of small, irregular dots ranging in shade from the palest _café au lait_ to a ruddier hue that very nearly matched his hair scattered across its surface. She could spend endless hours lazily trailing her fingers across his skin, mapping each hidden picture, tracing each abstract design, as if all of his secrets were contained within the unique landscape of his body.

That she had barely an hour to seek them out was like some sort of cruel joke the Universe was inflicting on her. Or perhaps, simply a reminder.

"Why are you here?" His voice was wondering rather than confrontational.

Because of that tone—so unlike what she was accustomed to hearing from him—she deflected his question with one of her own. "Why do you want me?"

"Hell if I know."

Ah, there. That sounded more like the man she knew. Yet didn't know at all. "Then ditto."

After a pause he asked in a lowered voice, "Are we both liars?"

She matched his pause. "Probably."

She followed a trail down his sternum and across his ribs. A lazy, meandering path that put her in mind of a river. A hidden spot that spoke of trees and shadows and the sound of water tumbling over rocks worn smooth across millennia. That spoke of seclusion. And peace.

More wishful thinking, maybe. Definitely.

His watch ticked steadily as he stroked her hair, a herald come bearing an ominous, inevitable message. Time was not their friend.

"Liz—"

She took that as another sign and pushed herself up. But before she could roll completely away from his body—from the warmth and comfort that had been lacking for entirely too long—she felt hands wrap around her upper arms. He held her in place above him—just far enough away to force her to meet his level gaze. No escaping now.

But then, she was the one who had come in of her own free will, hadn't she? Grave, silent, meeting his gaze, much as she did now, staring at him across his threshold for a long, charged moment before she took that final step.

The escape she'd sought had been _to_ him, not from him.

"Why are you here?"

She remained silent for a long time, tracing her answer by way of connecting the pale marks scattered across his chest. Words and sentiments she couldn't quite put voice to. But even if he understood, that wouldn't be enough for him. He was a man of substance—a man who relied on tangible evidence. He might understand what she was trying to convey, but he wouldn't fully trust it until he had some form of concrete proof.

There was so very little she could give him. Least of all the time she wanted to. The only thing she could do was give him the truth. At least, as much of it as she herself understood.

"Because I wanted to be here."

There was more, of course, but she didn't even fully understand it herself. Starting with what she was even doing here. With him. Never would she have imagined herself in this position. At all. And certainly not with him.

Yet, he was the only person with whom she could ever imagine doing this.

She knew all of the psychology. Hours spent in forced proximity, abnormally close relationships that would not exist under any other circumstance, results of traumatic events, blah, blah, _blah_.

Academically speaking, she knew the statistics. The probabilities.

Academically speaking, she didn't give a damn.

Statistics and probabilities had no way by which to take into account emotion.

There was no graph or study that could accurately measure what they'd survived to date.

No quantifiable way by which to mark her absolute knowledge that this was merely the beginning of a long, hard road. One in which they would be increasingly relying on each other.

Even with his watch ticking incessantly, she gave into impulse and lowered herself down until her head rested on his chest, the steady beating of his heart drowning out the inexorable _tick…tick…tick…._

"Will you be back?" His voice was barely louder than his heart, each word, fitting seamlessly into the silent pauses between beats.

Once again she drew her answer, this time along the skin of his forearm, the fine hairs teasing her sensitive skin. Finally, she wrapped her hand around his wrist, her palm covering the face of his watch. Obliterating its face with the numbers that appeared to mock her.

"If you want."


End file.
